Owed
by samvimes
Summary: Rosie made a promise to John Keel about young Sam Vimes, and got her reward...but not in a way either of them expected.


I don't know why I wrote this ridiculously strange bit of fanfic. I do know  
that Yap asked for a "delirious drunken Sam Vimes" from me, and I said I   
didn't know how to write that, but I never turn down a challenge. It was   
just supposed to be that, a little delirious story, but like a treacherous  
mud puddle you think won't hurt your shoes, it suddenly got deep.  
  
It's not a songfic, but I think I should give fair warning that I started  
this while listening to Eminem's "Superman" but ended it while listening to  
Sting's "I Must Have Loved You". Which makes for strange combinations.  
  
Enjoy the deep, the deliri...oci..ty(?), and the drunkenness, gentle readers.  
And don't worry...have I ever yet provided you with an unhappy ending?  
  
Thanks to Mary and Yap for the betas!  
  
OWED  
  
"Rosie Palm wants to see you. Well, I assume she meant you. 'That ungrateful  
bastard' was the actual term she used."  
"I think I owe her some money," said Vimes, "but I've know idea how much."  
"Don't ask me," said Lawn. "She generally names her price up front."  
--The Night Watch  
  
Consider Great A'Tuin, ten thousand miles long, which for those keeping track   
is about the distance between San Francisco and Beijing, if you're traveling  
via Paris*.   
  
Yes...a bit larger than the normal sort.   
  
Consider the Disc itself, slightly smaller than A'Tuin but just as mysterious   
and strange.   
  
Now consider one city, still large enough to hold a million bodies, some of   
which are trolls and therefore take up quite a lot of room. A million people,   
all living next to and above and below and occasionally fist-in-face with each   
other.   
  
And in the middle of it all, one little two-ounce bit of semi-precious metal.   
Amazing that it doesn't get lost. Amazing that anyone holds onto anything in   
this city. Two ounces, maybe three inches across? A Watchman's badge. Used to   
have some clout, maybe. Did have some under Snapcase, at least until Snapcase   
got the brain-froth and wosshisname took over.  
  
Night Watch Sergeant Sam Vimes was about to expound upon this interesting   
comparison between ten-thousand-mile-long Great A'Tuin and the three inches,   
two ounces of copper in Badge number 177, when the bar closed.  
  
Of course he was drunk. It was his day off. The two, in these times, were   
synonymous. Mmh. The world made sense through the amber of a Bearhugger's   
bottle. Or a pint glass. He was loyal, in the sense that Bearhugger's was   
usually cheapest and so he bought it, but he wasn't picky.   
  
Tonight it had been wossname, whiskey, straight. Wossname Whiskey. There was   
a hellofaname.   
  
He stumbled up against the hard brick of an alley wall, and laughed. Not the   
only one drinking tonight. No sir. Lord Vetinari was Patrician and the city   
was celebrating.   
  
No sir.   
  
Yes sir.  
  
He laughed again. Yes, sir, mister Vetinari, sir. Vetinari. Funny name. One of   
the old families.  
  
Vimes was an old family. Older than Vetinari. Three hunnert years ol'. Cut off   
the head of the king. Like to see some ponce named Vetinarry do that. Cut the   
head off a king. Damn ye alle. E's got to die sometime.  
  
He slid down the wall, slowly, until he was crouched, back against brick, arms   
around knees. It didn't feel right to be out of un'firm. No chain mail. No   
protection. Jus' his leather britches and white workman's shirt and his badge,   
which he always carried. His badge. Like his nose. Wasn't wrong or right or good   
or, wossname, the other thing, just his badge. Like his nose.  
  
He touched his nose with one hand. It was running.  
  
Yer nose runs an' yer feet smell, came the old voice back at him. Who was that,   
Keel? No. Umm. Knock. The big bully.   
  
Sammy hated bullies. Even as a kid. Took his swing at a bigger boy every time,   
stead of seeing some little kid get hurt.   
  
Yar, yar, gonna be a copper Sammy Vimes, can't get no other job. Ain't bright   
enough for nothin' else. Too scrappy to be a tradesman, too stubborn to be a   
servant, too honest to be a crook.  
  
And now the hot tears, that only ever came after the bottle, and not often even   
then. Shame and rage, and anger and hatred, all four directed to the self, for   
being a stupid drunk with no more power than the badge he could hide behind.   
  
The self, because the world was too big to hate, though he would make a spirited   
attempt.  
  
A shadow at the alley mouth.  
  
"This is far more trouble than it's worth, you know," said the woman who was   
standing in the moonlight, looking down on him. He turned away, so that she   
wouldn't see the tears.  
  
"You don' haffa be here."  
  
"No," she replied. "But I promised John Keel."  
  
It was not the first time they'd spoken these words. Not by far. Even if he'd   
been too drunk to even force his mouth around his lines, she would have said   
the things she'd said. She reached down and pulled him up effortlessly; she kept   
in quite good shape.   
  
"This famous letter he lef' you," Sam slurred. "You din...promise him nuffin."  
  
"He asked for my word that I'd keep you safe. He wasn't alive to take it."  
  
"You shuntof give it."  
  
"But I did."  
  
"Din't know how much trouble I was gon' be, didja?" he asked, as she shoved one   
shoulder into his chest, supporting him.  
  
"Sure didn't," she agreed. "It's too far back to your flat. Come up to mine,   
it's just down the block."  
  
"I betcha say that ta all the boys."  
  
She laughed. "Just you, Sam. Besides, Keel said I'd get a reward."  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Dunno what it is, but I'm looking forward to it."  
  
They walked on in silence for a while -- well, Rosie walking, and dragging Sam --   
until he nudged her in the ribs.  
  
"Did'e really?" he asked.  
  
"Yes, he did."  
  
"Din't say what it was gon' be?"  
  
"Nope. Here we are," she added, helping him up a flight of stairs.  
  
"Copper takin' help from a whore, tain't right," he said.  
  
"We prefer Seamstress," she corrected, unlocking the door with one hand while   
she kept his head level with the other. "And you may call me Madam, thank you   
very much. Vetinari's already promised us a guild. And not like Snapcase either,   
you know. He's got the paperwork to back it up."  
  
"Good f'you, Rosie. Good f'you. Guild of Seamstresses. Legal 'tection. Tired of   
'resting you."  
  
"You never arrested me, Sam," replied Rosie Palm, as he collapsed on a rug, in   
a pile of arms and legs. So thin, too thin. Too much whiskey, not enough hot   
meals. Well, that wasn't Rosie's concern. Her concern was that Sergeant Sam   
Vimes didn't spend long enough, drunk, on the street, to get killed. She'd made   
a promise to John Keel.  
  
"Ah, Rosie," he moaned, staring up at the ceiling as she helped him kick off his   
boots. "I'm a ter'ble copper. Mos' noto...oro...ri...orius woman in th'city, an'   
on Sarge's beat. An' will he 'rest her? He will not."  
  
"I've always been grateful for that, Sam Vimes," Rosie replied, as she put a   
kettle on the stove.   
  
"Be 'shamed to arst you. Be 'shamed. All you done. All you done f'r me.   
Ungrateful. To 'rest you."  
  
"You're damned right," Rosie replied. "Orange or black, Sam?"  
  
"Orange," he replied. "With a shotinnit."  
  
"I think you've had enough for tonight, don't you?"  
  
"Nuffa what?"  
  
"Anything you want more of," answered the Seamstress calmly. "You want to sleep on   
the couch, or on the bed?"  
  
There was a sudden arm, running its way around her slim waist, and the smell of   
alcohol near her face.  
  
"S'at an offer, Rosie?" Sam asked, murmuring in her ear. She hadn't even heard him   
stand; he could be quiet when he wanted. She could feel his whip-thin body,   
pressing against her own.  
  
"Now, Sam, you don't mean that," she said, pushing him away gently with an elbow.   
She didn't always help him out; she couldn't, always, but she did when she could.   
Sam was her responsibility; he was the one charitable thing she attended to in this   
life, the gods alone knew why. Sometimes people take strange fancies. But he wasn't  
her man.  
  
"Dontcha like me at all, Rosie?" he asked plaintively.   
  
"What's got into you tonight?" asked Rosie. "Course I like you, Sam. Promise or not,   
I wouldn't put up with your drunk arse otherwise. D'you think I like having you snore   
on my rug two days in ten?"  
  
"I could pay," Sam said sulkily. Rosie slapped him, gently. "Not for /that/. Could   
pay you back. I did try. Y'keep slippin' it back t'me."  
  
"You'd starve otherwise. Thirty-eight dollars a month, and you give half of it away  
as it is. It's a crime to make a man live the way you do."  
  
He sat on her couch, in the tasteful, plain flat, and put his face in his hands.   
"Vet'nari's gon' give you a guild?"  
  
"Well, he says he is. He says guilds are power, in the city."  
  
"Worth a shot. Watch ain't worth mutsh, s'for sure."  
  
Rosie smiled, and poured the tea. "Drink up, Sam. Put some hair on that skinny   
chest of yours."  
  
"You keep sayin' that."  
  
"Maybe one day it'll be true."  
  
"You ain't never seen my chest. /You/ don't know."  
  
"Drink up anyhow, Sam."  
  
He sipped his tea. Looked at her. Put his head back in his hands.  
  
"I ever tell you...you...you. I ever tell you, this city's a woman?"  
  
Rosie lifted an eyebrow. "Awfully big, smelly woman, Sam."  
  
"Yerss. A bitch," said Sam, with feeling. "Can't stand 'er, can't escape 'er.   
Love 'er. Can't live wiffout 'er. But she kicks ya inna teef. Pushes ya back. Ya   
try to love 'er and she sticks annelbow inna gut."  
  
Rosie moved to sit next to him on the couch, took his tea, and ruffled his hair.   
"You're a strange one, Sam, and no denying."  
  
He nuzzed her neck, affectionately. "Pretty girl, Rosie."  
  
"Now, Sam -- "  
  
But she'd thought it before, hadn't she? Each time she brought Sam home, or took   
him back to his flat, it was harder not to stay with him; harder because he was   
charming, and weak, and because he so obviously needed someone to care for him.   
  
"Rosie," he said softly. "You don' do't no more, but if I was t'pay -- "  
  
"Oh, Sam," she interrupted. "Silly boy."  
  
"Not a boy. Sergeant. Big man in the Night Watch. Like bein' president of the   
loser's club."  
  
"We're neither of us children any more, Sam. You wouldn't have to pay."  
  
She felt him freeze, felt the shock and tension in his body. There, she'd said it.   
  
Now what?  
  
"Couldn't anyway," he said. "Bit too drun' for that an all. I were jus' kiddin',   
pretty Rosie."  
  
"Sure you were," she whispered. "Go on and sleep, Sam. Sleep it off."  
  
"Why're you a Seamstress, Rosie?" he asked, the same childish curiousity in his   
voice.  
  
"What else is there?" she replied, feeling his breathing slow even as she said it.   
"Sam..."  
  
"Mm?"  
  
"Nothing."  
  
"Hf." He breathed out, still leaning on her shoulder, and began to snore.  
  
She stood, let him slump over on the couch, pulled the blanket on the back down   
over his slumbering form. Kissed his cheek.  
  
"Night, Rosie," he mumbled.  
  
"Night, Sam," she answered.  
  
Once upon a time, she'd been a little romantic, and had wanted to honour a dead man's   
final request, that she keep an eye on young Sam and make sure he stayed out of   
trouble. At first she'd done it because of John Keel's letter.  
  
Now, though. Now she did it because Sam needed someone to do it, and it might as well   
be her. He made sure that she and her girls were safe, and she in return made sure he   
didn't die a gutter-drunk, victim of an overzealous mugger. It wasn't a perfect   
friendship, but it was what it was, and she didn't mind his presence on her couch.   
  
Comforting. That's what it was.  
  
***  
  
She woke to the sound of cursing, quiet cursing, Sam Vimes cursing.  
  
"Wossat?" she asked sleepily.   
  
"Where's my boots, Rosie?" came the male voice from the doorway.  
  
"Dunno," she replied, rolling over. "I thought they were by the couch."  
  
"Socks?"  
  
"Sam, if you can't find your own socks, you shouldn't be going yet," she said,   
sitting up in the bed. She saw his lean shape in the doorway, boots dangling   
from one hand.  
  
"I'm sober," he said. "Wish I wasn't. Got any drink about the place?"  
  
"No, Sam, you know that," said Rosie. "What time is it?"  
  
"Bout eight in the morning, I guess. Sun's up."  
  
"Don't let it in here."  
  
"Right you are, Rosie. Just let me find my socks and I'll go," he added. She   
giggled. "What's so funny?"  
  
"Come in and sit down," Rosie offered. He stepped into the bedroom warily;   
responsibility or not, this was Rosie's territory, not his, and he rarely   
ventured inside. "I won't bite, Sam."  
  
"Except for extra pay," he supplied.  
  
"Is that any way to treat the woman who keeps you out of trouble?" she asked,   
as he sat on the edge of the bed. She curled around his warmth, reflexively.   
"What do you know for sure, Sam Vimes?"  
  
And this was another tradition; she wasn't sure who'd started it. Probably Sam.  
What do you know for sure?  
  
"World's flat," he answered. "Love's faithless. Stone's hard. Cats are nice."  
  
"You're warm."  
  
"Good blankets."  
  
"My blankets."  
  
"I'm grateful."  
  
"Never said you weren't."  
  
"What's it all about, Rosie?"  
  
"Couldn't say."  
  
They sat in silence for a while.   
  
"You know you drink too much, Sam?" Rosie asked, resting her cheek on his thigh.   
  
"I figure."  
  
"You going to stop?"  
  
"What for? Not like I got a girl to disappoint or a career to ruin. Couldn't   
wreck my life much more than it already is."  
  
"You've got me, Sam."  
  
"But you don't care. Not really. You just do it for the same reason I'm still   
a copper. Stupid loyalty."  
  
"Sam?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Take off your trousers."  
  
He blinked, and looked down at her. "What for?"  
  
Rosie began to laugh, uncontrollably. "Only you, Sam," she gasped. "Only /you/   
would ask /me/ that."  
  
"Oh..." he nodded. "I can't afford you."  
  
"Did I ask for money?"  
  
"We never...it's not that way for us, Rosie. Is it?" he asked, uncertainly.  
  
"No. But I'd like to be with a man who cares, for once. Nobody cares anymore."  
  
"No, nobody does."  
  
There was a moment of quiet consideration. And the sound of Sam Vimes standing,  
and the rustle of clothing.  
  
"It's this only, mind," he said slowly. Rosie pulled the blankets back.  
  
"This only," she agreed. "Come to bed, Sam."  
  
***  
  
But it wasn't this only, was it? It was this again. It was this every so often.   
It was this with Sam Vimes.   
  
He wasn't jealous. Never assumed he was the only man allowed in her bedroom, though  
he often was. He didn't try to ask her to dinner. Didn't try to make it anything  
more than a comfort between the pair of them. He simply took her invitation when it   
was offered, and when it wasn't, slept on her couch without complaint.   
  
Then he made Captain, and Rosie was a big woman in the guild, and it was no time at   
all, it seemed, before he was suddenly getting married, suddenly the Commander. Rosie   
didn't begrudge him his wife, his son, or his sobriety; she was head of her guild,   
she had power and comfort, she was happy. Happy for him, too, because he'd found a   
woman who could get him off the bottle, who could make him really alive, something   
that she'd never bothered with.  
  
And then he came back.  
  
It was a simple knock on her door. Her servant showed him up. He was growing older,   
they both were, and his hair had more grey than black in it now, more grey than   
when she'd dragged him up out of the gutter to her flat, and served him tea, and   
occasionally let him into her bed.  
  
"Afternoon, Rosie," he said, hesitantly. She gave him a brilliant smile.  
  
"What brings you to this part of the city, your Grace?" she asked.  
  
"I wish you wouldn't call me that."  
  
"What else should I call you?"  
  
"You used to call me Sam."  
  
"You didn't used to be a Duke, Sam."  
  
He gave her that same damn charming smile. He probably didn't even know he did   
it. "And you didn't used to be a Mrs., Rosie."  
  
"No, I guess not. Back when you were a drunk and I was a -- "  
  
" -- woman who gave me a warm place to sleep on cold nights," he finished for   
her. "I didn't come here to harass you, Rosie, you of all people ought to know  
that."  
  
"Why did you come, Sam?"  
  
He smoothed his hair again, and reached into his breastplate -- rather a better   
one than he used to have, she noted -- and pulled out a small leather bag.  
  
"You always said John Keel promised you a reward for your helping me," he said,   
in an embarrassed sort of way. "This...came to my attention, recently."  
  
There was a letter, tucked in the bag, as well as a handful of Ankh-Morpork   
crowns, antique coins worth perhaps five thousand dollars each. The letter was   
really just a sheet of parchment. "Rosie Palm", written on it in curly handwriting.   
She looked at him, but his face was blank; finally, she went to the bookshelf and   
drew out a yellowing envelope.  
  
"The famous letter," he said.  
  
"Yes," answered Rosie. She compared it to the sheet in the bag. The handwriting   
matched perfectly. "Where did you find it?"  
  
"Coppers find things," he said, simply.   
  
"How'd he get so much cash?"  
  
"Coppers find things."  
  
She grinned.  
  
"I know you don't really need the money," he continued, "But...it was your right.   
And it's owed to you. All those times you pulled me out of the alleys and trash   
piles. You are owed, Rosie."  
  
Rosie smiled, and leaned back in her chair, her fingers drifting over the papers   
spread on her table, resting briefly on a picture frame. A bright-eyed, dark-haired   
young boy smiled up out of it, with the same effortless charm of the Commander.   
  
"I've had my compensations," she answered. "This'll go a long way towards Richard's  
schooling, though."  
  
He gave her a nod. "How's your lad? Going on twelve now, isn't he?"  
  
"Be fourteen in Grune, actually."  
  
"Surprised you haven't sent him to a guild school."  
  
"I tried. He didn't like being an Assassin, said they were faithless predators. He's   
a bright boy. Can't decide if he wants to be a doctor or a politician. I'm thinking   
of sending him to Klatch."  
  
"Heard they have good doctors, there."  
  
"That's what they say."  
  
He had never asked who the boy's father was, and she had never volunteered the   
information. Perhaps he didn't even think of it. Probably he didn't. Richard didn't   
look enough like him to cause suspicion, except for the smile and something about   
the eyes. Not even the colour so much as the expression -- as though the world were   
about to play a magic trick and the boy could see every card up its sleeve.   
  
No, this Sam would have asked, if he'd wanted to know. If he even thought about it,   
he'd have asked.  
  
"How's your wife?" Rosie asked. "I heard it was a difficult time for her."  
  
"She's certainly better than she was," he said honestly. "And he's a big healthy boy,   
is our Sam."  
  
"That's good. I'm glad for you."  
  
"Thank you, Rosie."  
  
And he saluted her, and said good day, and walked on ahead out, back to his family,   
back to his legitimate son. Away from Rosie, who after all was a Seamstress, who   
after all had only enjoyed his company, hadn't really loved him. Away from Richard,   
who smiled like his father.  
  
Rosie sighed, and smiled as well, and touched the sack of coins.   
  
Owed. No, Sam had paid that debt off long ago. He'd given her Richard. And she might   
not have loved Sam Vimes, might not have bothered to put up a fight when Sybil Ramkin   
stole his affections, but she did love his son, his first son, with all her heart.   
  
END  
  
* And who wouldn't want to travel anywhere via Paris? 


End file.
